


Forbidden Fruit.

by LadyVader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Attempted dubcon, Denial, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader/pseuds/LadyVader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur’s NOT gay – he just REALLY wants to suck Eames off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden Fruit.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Attempted dubcon, language, (some minor Het) mild crack and low level gun play.  
> Disclaimer: INCEPTION and its lovely molestable characters belong to Mr Christopher Nolan who Incepted me into borrowing them: You’ve no one to blame but yourself Chris!  
> Author’s Note: For Cheryl & the Insaners who declared there to be such a thing as _BlowJob Day_ and then this happened :) All mistakes are mine.

The thing is – Arthur’s straight, always has been.

At 15 he’d nearly tossed himself raw on a daily basis, his homeroom teacher Ms Miller having the sort of full, swinging breasts that could captivate a young mind and hold its attention all day, his prick at half mast before she’d even leant over to speak to anyone, her braless nipples brushing the inside of her blouse and slowly burgeoning into obvious points that had him coming over his fist at any given moment.

He lost his virginity to his lab partner at 17, holding on just long enough to watch her tits bounce harder beneath him as she shrieked his name and came hard, hoping her excruciatingly hot 19 year old sister was listening from her room.

From then on in, he was hooked.

He didn’t run around screwing any girl that moved or anything so plebeian, he was far too focused on his studies and the offers being made to him to join Homeland Security, too damn _good_ at what he did to have time enough to take up any offers cast his way, let alone go out prowling for a tailor made fuck.

Of course, once he’d reached the dizzying heights of illicit dream share technology, the gains had been so great that his rewards, both monetary and freedom based, had tripled leaving him with both time and acres of inclination to hone his other, less _martial_ skills.

Life had been (for wont of a more expressive, exuberant term) GOOD – right up until his prowess within dream sharing had made him a _liability_ instead of an asset and _just like that_ he’d become a criminal.

(Not so) oddly enough, illegality paid infinitely better and required an entirely new (and therefore stimulating) level of excellence.

Arthur _loved_ it.

He loved the entire Mal debacle significantly less – the running, hiding and overall stealth-like behaviour was nothing new but to be _forced_ into it removed the appeal entirely.

Still, he loved Dom like the idealistic and somewhat ostentatious brother he’d never had and, until such time as his name could be cleared, their fates were inextricably entwined and so they ran.

They ran to old friends, made new ones – ran into old enemies, made _worse_ ones until they were finally able to weave a secure net of contacts and Arthur no longer needed to conceal himself in empty rooms, on rooftops, ready with a gun trained on whomever – just in case.

One gleaming Venetian afternoon, Arthur had joined Cobb later than planned to meet an old friend from the early days of Dom’s training in dreamscape theory, strolling through the quietly busy restaurant to where Cobb sat speaking softly yet animatedly to a man sprawled indolently across a seat tilted to the window.

“Arthur – good, you’re here. This is Eames – he was a front runner of the speciality sect back when we were still being paid to do this for God, Duty and the American way.”

The stranger – _Eames_ – had unfolded himself slowly from the chair, rising with a low laugh and a smirk in Dom’s direction. “You forgot the Queen, Dominic – I don’t so much as breathe without her express wish.” He’d winked and offered a hand to Arthur.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” His lips said, body loose and louche as he’d held Arthur’s eyes and palm, insouciance curling the corners of his mouth upward even as his eyes blazed their way from Arthur’s feet up to his immaculately pomaded hair and Arthur burned blood-bright everywhere that hot blue gaze had touched.

“Whatever.” He’d responded winningly, dropping into the seat directly to Dom’s right and had stayed there, glowering, for the entire exchange.

That night he’d repeatedly, _furiously_ slicked come across his own belly, completely confounded and _appalled_ that he could be so instantaneously aroused by such a shoddily dressed and ridiculously clichéd example of English nobility – let alone the fact HE WASN’T GAY.

The next time he’d seen Eames, the man had favoured him with a glance so laden with the knowledge that Eames knew _exactly_ what Arthur had been doing that he’d been forced to hate him on sight (and had continued the trend ever since).

Their first job together, Cobb booked them all into the same crappy tourist trap rat shack in Madrid and at dinner Eames sat opposite him and had the temerity to lick a drop of Gazpacho from his lip as the Brit spoke low and seriously to Dom.

Their rooms had been next to each other, Eames clearly visible from Arthur’s bed as he smoked on his miniature balcony and so Arthur had snuck back down to the bar, located a likely (and frankly well lubricated) brunette and proceeded to fuck her 'til the early hours, her loud cries punctuating each extravagantly _superb_ move he used on her 'til Eames could be in no doubt whatsoever of just how goddamn STRAIGHT Arthur was.

Arthur himself had been less than convinced – delightfully loud and prone to lewd, continuous praise though the girl had been, Arthur had spent nearly the _entire_ time picturing Eames laying next door, languorously fisting his cock and listening to Arthur showcase his talents.

He could have forgiven himself if he’d been obsessed with ripping the (awful, DREADFUL) clothes off what he suspected was a godlike body, better yet had he focused on those smirking, twisting lips – pictured fucking them and shutting Eames up once and for all in doing so. He would have even preferred to be fixated on the idea of expanding his beneficiaries, using his notable skills on getting Eames to arch back and yell his name even louder than the bloody girl had (Poppy? Holly? Something stupid and floral) OR – and this was a big shift – letting bi-curiousity arch him under Eames’ thrusting form and learn what it meant to _be fucked_.

But _No_.

No understandable, homoerotic camaraderie based experimentation style fantasies for him, it seemed – oh no. His mind went _lower_.

Arthur fucked his palm slowly in the shower picturing how Eames shifted and spread his thighs wide for comfort when he sat.

He lay on his belly and ground his erection into the sheets, biting his fist as he thought about the almost _too_ loose fit of Eames’ appallingly tailored pants.

He came _groaning_ across his torso, smearing his fingers up over his skin to then shove said slippery digits past his lips, feeding himself his own come as he pictured sucking at just the fat, domed head of Eames' cock before Eames lost it and fucked his face.

_He wanted Eames' cock in his mouth._

It was a fact, a problem and his very best fantasy all rolled into one. Fortunately they didn’t work with Eames too often and the blur of distance and time between them enabled Arthur to rationalise his newfound need – Eames' obvious flirting making it entirely his own fault and Arthur (helpless, overworked innocent that he was) was just responding as any warm blooded male would.

This reasoning worked perfectly, unless directly confronted with said unabashed flirt who had (in fact) never propositioned Arthur in any way beyond the occasional wink and casual smirk, just the low rumble of his voice more than adequate foreplay in Arthur’s mind.

This behaviour continued for _years_ – Arthur torn up with a need that only made sense when actively faced with the indolent asshole and Eames behaving as he ever had, with _neither_ of them moving to tighten the circle he was SURE they were walking around each other.

Then came the _worst_ idea Cobb had ever put his mind to – worse than taking on a drugged out weasel of an architect who would betray them, worse _yet_ then agreeing to take a job from men who were known to execute their followers merely to terrify the rest into loyalty – even worse than refusing to shoot Mal in a dream she had no right to be in, no matter how many times she attacked them.

Inception.

Saito asked for the moon and Cobb promised it at the likely expense of his freedom, his _life_ and was taking Arthur along for the ride.

They waited, team painstakingly and pedantically assembled – long past prepared in Saito’s exquisite hotel, waiting for the early call that would have them out and ready to arrive (separately) in time to join Fischer Jr on the flight that would ideally save Dom’s life.

Arthur lay fully dressed on his bed.

He had nothing with him but the weaponry he’d be leaving in the car come morning and the suit he planned to wear for the flight – all extraneous matter to be dealt with by yet more of Saito’s purchased yet loyal disciples, leaving him with nothing but the crushing weight of the mission and the wait to _begin_ warring for precedence in his whirling mind.

They were attempting the impossible – in 24 hours they might well be all incarcerated or even dead.

Arthur closed his fingers over his gun and forced himself up from the bed.

_Not with a whimper, but a BANG._

He jammed his gun into the hollow of his waistband against his spine and stalked from his room, all but running to the room of the only other team member on this floor.

He entered the code for the room (he’d memorised them _all_ and _not_ for this purpose, he’d sworn it to himself at the time but that was less than important now) and swept inside, eyes narrowed as Eames rose from his lazy slouch across his own bed to frown at him.

“Problem, Arthur?”

Arthur was across the room, snarling, the gun at his throat before Eames had a chance to do more than blink.

“Not a word,” He hissed, dragging him away from the bed only to shove him 'til his back hit the wall, relishing the burn of confused betrayal as Eames struggled to quantify Arthur’s behaviour. “Not a goddamn word – you hear me?”

He jerked at Eames' belt buckle with his free hand and moaned almost silently as it came loose with a clatter leaving only skin warmed material beneath his already cupping palm.

“A-Arthur...” Eames blurted, hips bucking even as his eyes narrowed in startled fury, hand moving towards where Arthur still held the gun flush against the underside of Eames’ jaw. Arthur pressed harder with both metal and flesh, revelling in Eames’ cut off grunt of pleasure.

“Not. A. Goddamned. Word.” He reiterated, punctuating himself with prods and squeezing and Eames’ eyes flickered shut, his head knocking dully back against the wall as Arthur smirked and moved slowly to his knees, his gun still trained on Eames’ throat, arm fully extended as he sank down to press his mouth worshipfully against Eames' now slightly straining fly.

He pushed the heel of his hand down over the jut of his own erection, moaning softly as he turned his cheek against the heat emanating from the gloriously distended material of Eames’ pants before stiffening, glaring upwards as Eames' hand tentatively brushed over his brow.

“I will _fucking shoot you_.” He snarled and ignored the flash of amusement in Eames’ eyes as he pulled his hands up and away, holding them up in classic surrender. “Hands on the wall.” Arthur demanded, surprised to find Eames’ silent obedience to be less arousing than it should be.

His eyes, however, as they watched Arthur slowly draw down his fly, un-flicking the button to let the material part round his damp and distended briefs, were _unfuckingbelievable._

Eames wet his lips and panted as Arthur pressed his face against Eames’ lower belly, the skin scorching him as he held the steel-blue gaze, his fingers just edging under the waist band, drawing it down over the apparently considerable bulk of Eames’ erect cock, never blinking as he dipped his face to let the slick, hot tip brush over his cheek.

Arthur’s gun arm quivered and they each moaned (though Arthur wasn't sure who was louder) before he let out a soft whimper and turned his head to drag his lips over Eames’ wet cockhead.

“ _Fuck_ yes.” Arthur ground out, pulling back to finally drop his gaze and feast his eyes on the rigid flesh bobbing proudly before his face, heat suffusing his cheeks, gun clattering to the floor as both hands moved to touch and stroke, holding the shaft steady as he murmured pleased noises against its length.

“Fuck – FUCK, Eames, fucking _knew_ it’d be pretty, knew it, _knew it_...” He closed his mouth over the tip and bobbed down, his hand dragging the length as reflex, trying to get as much of it into his mouth before sliding back up choking, eyes pouring as his throat seized against the intrusion.

He coughed and leaned against Eames’ hip, trying to breathe and accepting the gentle hands carding through his hair before he could register their movement and the words above him.

“Easy darling, _easy_ there...” Eames crooned and Arthur glared, watery eyed, at him for speaking to him like a jittery horse, blinking as he realised he’d dropped his weapon.

He opened his mouth to snarl, quivering as Eames moaned, low and satisfied, at Arthur’s lips parting before him again.

“You were doing so well...” he whispered, sliding one hand free of Arthur’s hair to press a thumb against his now copiously weeping slit and smearing his precome over Arthur’s lower lip, both of them shuddering at the action as Eames drew his mouth further open, proffering his cock as though it needed guiding into Arthur’s wet mouth.

Arthur let his mouth fall wide, Eames’ thumb still stroking slickness over his lip, moving forward to let just the tip slide into his mouth, Eames’ hips driving ever so slightly forward, then back, so he pumped his cockhead gently against Arthur’s tongue.

Arthur’s eyes rolled in his head as his body shuddered and he braced a hand on Eames’ hip as the other reached down to press urgently against the stiff, stickiness of his own crotch.

Eames rolled his hips and his cock moved in and out of Arthur’s mouth, too swiftly to be savoured and too shallow to be sucked. Arthur whined and followed as Eames pulled back, sinking his mouth over it more fully, only to choke slightly when he thrust forward again.

Before Eames could do more than shudder at the increased sensation, Arthur had pulled off entirely, turning his face to suckle and nip ( _gently_ ) at the length and blood-hot width of it, whimpering as Eames’ cock jerked against his face, his fingers tightening as he stroked up and down once more, pumping precome over his mouth and cheeks before he let out a strangled sob and sunk back down for as much as he could take, sucking hard as his clasped fingers slapped up against his lips with every stroke.

“ _Fuck_ – fuck that’s... darling... Arthur that’s... nnggh....”

Arthur smirked around his mouthful of flesh, sucking harder as he heard Eames head smack back against the wall again, his hips making stuttering jerks forward and pushing more of his thick, hot prick over Arthur’s tongue as he swallowed and groaned against the spasming tickle at the back of his throat, ignoring his watering eyes in favour of the weeping cock between his lips.

He worked his hand faster as he pulled back, whimpering at the loss even as he turned his face back and forth to drag his lips through the sloppy mess of Eames’ dripping cockhead, smearing over and across his cheeks and jaw for no better reason than _it felt so fucking GOOD_ before dipping back down to hollow his cheeks over the purpled, swollen end and _sighing_ with pleasure as he felt both of Eames’ hands spear through his hair, jerking his head in time with the tiny thrusts he was making into his mouth.

“Yes – bloody FUCK Yes Arthur... suck it, _take_ it...” He ground out and Arthur pressed his hand down _HARD_ over his own cock to keep from coming, whimpering smugly as Eames picked up both speed and depth, his hips snapping to and fro as he tried to keep pace with Arthur’s slippery fingers and dedicated tongue.

Arthur couldn’t quite breathe, his blood singing in his ears, out of time with his hammering heart but as long as he could hear the sloppy-slick sounds of his mouth on Eames’ thick cock he honestly couldn’t care less.

“Arthur... Arthur... Darling, I’m – I’m going to –“

Eames suddenly released his grip, voice desperate and Arthur wondered at it, that perhaps he thought Arthur might _not_ want to taste his come, his thoughts swiftly mangled as he pulled back just enough to leave the head still slipping and twitching against his tongue, tightening his lips and moaning joyously when Eames thrust fingers back into his hair, this time just cradling as his hips stuttered and jutted forward.

“ _Fuck YES_..” he ground out before a thick jet of come suddenly pulsed into Arthur’s mouth and his jaw dropped in surprise, crying out as his own hips jerked and tried to follow, Eames’ come leaking out and dripping down his chin as another pulse striped over his tongue and Arthur _writhed_ with triumph.

He swallowed as much as he could, bobbing and dragging his lips over Eames' still spurting cock, gasping in surprised arousal as a ribbon of come lashed heat across his cheek before dropping to suckle wildly at whatever he’d missed, dripping back down the thick length of Eames’ jerking dick, moaning and sucking at it 'til Eames’ soft, begged entreaties combined with gentle tugs at his hair had him sliding up and off the spit-slick flesh.

Eames crumpled bonelessly before him, using his grip to jerk Arthur forward, a firm, hot tongue laving over his cheeks and jaw-line even as Arthur muttered nonsensically against his skin, unhappy about sharing his bounty until Eames jerked his head up and proceeded to feed him back his well earned spoils, his tongue stroking over and around Arthur’s 'til he shook and begged wordlessly against him.

“I can’t believe you thought you needed the gun...” Eames muttered thickly, his large hand dropping to squeeze over Arthur’s poor neglected cock and, with a helpless whimper, he shot and shuddered against Eames’ palm, trousers soaked through within seconds.

They sat, panting, leaning against one another drunkenly as their hearts struggled to resume their regular beats and Arthur’s eyes somehow focused as he gazed across the room, still leant into the sticky warm embrace of Eames’ body.

He blinked, feeling stirrings deep in his belly as he stared at what appeared to be Eames’ choice of outfit for the mission hanging on the outside of his closet – one olive toned, one black – both _exquisite._

“Wear the black,” He mumbled wearily, “You’ll look amazing.”

Eames’ shifted slightly and Arthur felt him disguise a laugh, pressing his lips against Arthur’s hair.

“Only if you promise to let us try this again tomorrow _without_ the gun, darling.”

Arthur smiled, face hidden against Eames' now sweat soaked shirtfront.

“Mr Eames – if we survive tomorrow, not _only_ will I be back to suck you off but I’m pretty sure I’ll be wanting us to fuck six ways from Sunday.”

Eames let out a small appreciative sound. “We’ll survive it.” He ground out, hand squeezing where it still gently cupped Arthur’s groin.

Arthur smiled.

“Ok then. “ He tilted his head back slightly and let Eames trace the seam of his lips with his tongue 'til they were each panting again. “First one out of the airport gets sucked off in the cab?”

Eames bit his lip and smiled against Arthur’s mouth.

“Deal.”

Fin.


End file.
